


A Matter of Some Delicacy

by Caden_Ashford



Series: Myka, Lord Berkeley [1]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Crossdressing, Drama & Romance, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy I'm Sure, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caden_Ashford/pseuds/Caden_Ashford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka Bering did not choose to become the Lord Berkeley, but that was, nonetheless, the solution that was decided on upon the death of both her father and brother. Now there is simply the matter of acquiring some heirs...</p><p>Or: the Regency fic I didn't know I wanted until I found myself writing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Many and Varied Misfortunes of the Lords Berkeley

**Author's Note:**

> I did some research before blundering into this, but I'm sure there are some things I've gotten wrong. For that, I'll apologize in advance. Also, though the Berkeley family and Berkeley Castle are quite real, the Viscountcy here used has been extinct since the late 15th century. This story in no way reflects upon the actual Berkeley family as a whole, or upon current, future, or past Barons Berkeley.
> 
> The main characters of this story are Myka, Helena, Pete, and William Wolcott. Other characters tagged mostly have relatively minor, sometimes even cameo, roles.
> 
> Please note: Generally, chapters that are from Myka's POV will use female pronouns for Myka, Lord Berkeley, while chapters from Helena's POV will use male pronouns although, given other characters' varying perceptions of Myka as a character, there may be some inconsistencies.
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely wife, who beta read this for me. Oh, and I don't own the characters of Warehouse 13. But I think you already knew that.

It was common knowledge in certain parts of England that the history of the Bering family was fraught with misfortune. The fifth Viscount of Berkeley had perished in the Seven Years War, leaving the estate to his eldest son, Mr Charles Bering, who had often in his life suffered from ill humours, and who himself did not hold the title for more than ten years before succumbing to his frail nature. The title fell then to his younger brother, Captain Warren Bering of the 28th Regiment of Foot, who upon resigning from the service, developed a love of drink and horses and who came to his unfortunate end, quite predictably, in a hunting accident, thus conferring the title upon his only son, Mr Henry Bering, who was aged only nine years at that time, and leaving as his legal guardian and custodian of the estate Mr Arthur Nielsen, a close personal friend from the service.

In his early years, the young Lord Berkeley was reputed to be quite as sickly as his late uncle Charles, the sixth Viscount. However, in his twelfth year, following yet another bout of illness, he made quite a remarkable recovery, and from thence forward was nearly always said to be in the pink of health.

This is because, unknown to most, the young Lord Berkeley actually  _perished_ from that particular sickness, and was instead replaced in public eye with his twin sister, the Honorable Myka Bering, who was so like him in manner and appearance that  _no-one noticed_. This remarkable feat came about because as Mr Nielsen, guardian of the estate, knew, the young man had died intestate and there were no other male heirs to the title. With no heir the estate would revert to the crown and, as the young lord’s mother, Lady Berkeley, had only one living relative, a brother, who had not the means to support her and her two daughters, the rest of the Bering family would be left with no home and no income if another solution were not reached.

So it was that the family physician, one Dr Hugo Miller, was convinced, via a rather handsome sum of one thousand pounds, to declare deceased the  _daughter_  of the previous Lord Berkeley, and not the current lord himself.

The  _new_ Lord Berkeley was given a hasty haircut, and to reduce the number of folk aware of his _condition_ , was summarily placed into studies with Mr Nielsen himself, who then left the managing of the estate to his man of business, one Mr James MacPherson. Where before, Myka Bering had been taught sewing, dancing, French, Italian, and playing the piano-forte, her lessons with Mr Nielsen now included history, geography, various items relating to business, and, much to her delight,  _Latin_ as well. Of course, other lessons not so typical of the average young man included instruction on how to walk, talk, and act like a gentleman, something of which Myka had a passing knowledge as the daughter of a gentleman herself but which, upon beginning to learn from Mr Nielsen, she soon found she knew comparatively very  _little_.

However, Myka had always been an avid reader, much given to learning, and soon made up for her relative lack of knowledge. Within only two years of careful study Mr Nielsen declared her quite well prepared to pass muster as the young Lord Berkeley, and enrolled her at Eton for further study.

It was there that Myka made the acquaintance of Sir Peter Lattimer, another young gentleman afforded a title much before the age of majority by the early passing of his father, and with whom she became fast friends. Upon completion of schooling at Eton, the two young gentlemen had intended to go on their Grand Tour of the continent together, but the intercession of one Napoleon Bonaparte saw to it that this was quite impossible. Sir Peter insisted he would lend arms to the war effort and quickly purchased a commission in the Army for himself, a path which Myka, who had become quite splendid with a sword, was keen to follow. Though it was quite against the will of Lady Berkeley, and that of Mr Nielsen, and done with quite a bit of disregard to her own safety and the future of her family, Lord Berkeley acquired her own commission and, under the guise of combating Bonaparte’s forces, Lattimer and Berkeley were soon embarking together on their own, rather more martial, Tour.

During one particular skirmish with the Emperor’s troops, both Lord Berkeley and Sir Peter were injured. While Sir Peter was treated with efficiency by the regimental surgeon, to his dismay, Berkeley resisted such treatment—due, of course, to the fact that  _he_ was in fact  _she_. Though loath to admit to her devoted friend that she had been more than dishonest with him for the entirety of their acquaintance, Berkeley nonetheless explained the nature of her condition so that appropriate—and discreet—medical attention could be sought. Sir Peter was, understandably, upset by this piece of news, but, as a testament to his good character, not only kept her secret, but also aided his friend in acquiring an appropriate physician and, when Berkeley was deemed unfit for further soldiering, at least for the time, took a few months’ leave and accompanied her back to Berkeley Castle to recuperate under the watchful eyes of Dr Miller and Mr Nielsen.

Sir Peter soon became a fixture at Berkeley Castle, quite endeared to Berkeley’s sister, Miss Tracy Bering, and mother, Lady Berkeley, for his good humour and ability to lighten the mood of their dear Myka. So beloved was he, in fact, that the dowager lamented—loudly, and at great length, though of course only in the privacy of the home—her wish that a match could be made between him and Myka. Of course, no such match was possible, given that Myka was  _Lord_ Berkeley, but given the dangerous life Myka had chosen to lead by joining the Army, Lady Berkeley was understandably quite desirous that at least one heir should be acquired. She went so far as to suggest, even, that with Sir Peter’s assistance, Lord Berkeley could publicly revert to the sickly disposition of his youth, and be too ill to rejoin the Army or receive visitors for some time—nine months or so, perhaps.

When Myka deemed this a ridiculous, even absurd, suggestion, as any children she could produce herself would be out of wedlock, and therefore unable to inherit, Lady Berkeley suggested instead a match between Sir Peter and Miss Bering. Myka refused this also, on the grounds that Sir Peter, though quite amiable in nature, was ill suited to provide for Tracy in addition to his own sister and mother. With their best prospect to settle the matter of heirs out of the question, it was then decided that as soon as Myka had been declared hale and hearty once more by the incomparable Dr Miller, the whole Bering family would repair to London for as much of the Season as possible in hopes of securing a husband for Miss Bering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's no Helena in this chapter, but she does appear in the next one.
> 
> Comments and kudos much appreciated!


	2. A Gentleman Entirely Deserving of Praise

According to certain ladies of the ton, the young Viscount Berkeley was somewhat dour, while his sister, Miss Bering, was one of the most delightful young ladies present in London that Season. She was without a doubt very amiable, and so accomplished at the piano-forte that she was often called upon to play at any party that the Berkeleys attended. She was also, it was said, worth a generous fifteen thousand pounds in marriage. Understandably, Miss Bering never lacked for dancing partners.

Miss Helena Wells hated her.

This was not just because Miss Bering attracted more attention than Helena herself, nor because her marriage portion was more than twice Helena’s own, but also because Helena found her tiresome despite her many accomplishments. Helena’s conclusions could, perhaps, be attributed to the fact that Miss Wells was, herself, far more inclined towards literature than dancing, sewing, or any other _acceptable_ pursuits of a lady. At its simplest, Helena found _parties_ to be tedious and tiresome, and therefore, almost all the people who attended them acquired the same qualities in her mind.

 _Almost_ being the most important word.

Mr William Wolcott, son of a dear friend of her father, was one of the exceptions. Woolly could always be relied upon as a diverting partner in dance, converse, or cards, and was deemed neither tedious nor tiresome, perhaps due to his willingness to allow Helena to choose their diversions, or perhaps simply because they had known each other since they were very young, and he was well acquainted with her eccentricities.

Given her dislike of Miss Bering, Helena had been poised to dislike her brother as well, even without having met him personally. However, Wolcott, who had apparently been introduced to him at Brooks’s by Sir Peter, another friend of the family, gave the man glowing praise, so Helena was prepared to suspend judgment until she could meet him herself.

The opportunity came, as it so often did, at another tiresome party. Woolly had come to rescue her from the company of other ladies she had been forced to keep, women who seemed to talk of nothing but ribbon and fabric and millinery, subjects which, at the best of times, could put Helena to sleep. He invited her to a game of whist, to which Helena heartily agreed, and before long they were seated at table with none other than Lord Berkeley himself, along with another young lady, Miss Claudia Donovan, who, despite her youth, was another of the few Helena did not deem tiresome. She had heard, also, that Miss Donovan was rapidly becoming a particular friend of Miss Bering’s, which likely explained her apparent ease in speaking to Lord Berkeley.

Helena’s first impression of the man in question was that his regimentals did not suit him, making him appear every bit as “dour” as he was reported to be. Despite this, and despite his sober air, he was quite handsome, a tall personage who held himself very well. As introductions were made and the game was begun, with Claudia paired with his lordship and Helena paired, as usual, with Woolly, Lord Berkeley’s dour attitude proved to be merely one state of many. For even though Claudia was a middling player, Lord Berkeley on his own posed quite a challenge to her and Woolly, practiced partners though they were.

“Lord Berkeley, I had no idea you were so accomplished at cards,” said Helena.

“You would not think it, but while soldiering one has quite a lot of time to practice his cards.”

“Miss Bering says you were injured while away,” said Claudia.

“It is true that I was,” said he.

“Was it very gruesome?” she pressed. This should have been unusual, but Helena was well aware of Claudia’s particular fascination with the macabre, a predilection she had acquired after the rather unfortunate—and grisly, from Helena’s understanding—accident that had taken both of her parents.

“Oh, not very,” he replied. “I have seen much worse, as have most soldiers. But I think war is not the sort of stuff to talk of with young ladies.”

“Pray tell what _is?_ ” Helena asked, more snappishly than was appropriate.

Lord Berkeley met her eye with a look of amusement. “Forgive me, Miss Wells—it was a puerile deflection. I do not wish talk of war myself, but if war is what the lady would have…”

Helena held his gaze for a moment before returning her attention to her cards and changing the subject to poetry, a topic to which it seemed they all were able to contribute without commotion.

Upon completion of their game, Wolcott declared himself restless. “I believe, given our partnerships in cards, it would be only appropriate to change company for a dance,” he said, offering his hand to Miss Donovan. “If you would do me the honor, miss?”

Lord Berkeley stood slowly from the table, appearing pensive, but then turned back towards Helena. “Do you care to dance, Miss Wells?”

Though generally Helena was not much a one for dancing, given Woolly’s suggestion and his esteem for his lordship, she accepted.

They began the set by continuing their earlier conversation on poetry, and gradually moved to other forms of literature, including a fondness for some of the more bizarre tales, like Swift’s _Gulliver’s Travels_ , and various parts of the French _Le Mille et une nuits_. They debated the benefits and pitfalls of its Grub Street translation, _The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment_ , and concluded it was likely much better in its original Arabic, which unfortunately neither of them could read. This then devolved into the question of whether or not it was possible that any of the events could have been based on fact, which soon became quite a heated discussion. So much so, indeed, that when the set was over, they danced the next as well, and when that had ended, they continued their debate over refreshments—at least until Woolly came to fetch her at her brother’s request.

“I regret having to put an end to such…animated discourse,” he said, glancing at Lord Berkeley.

“It’s quite all right,” Berkeley replied. “I believe I shall have to call upon Miss Wells to continue it at another time.”

“It was truly a pleasure to meet you, your lordship,” she replied, giving him exactly the curtsey he was due given his station, and then allowing Wolcott to lead her away to rejoin Charles, who was already awaiting the arrival of their carriage. “I do believe, Woolly, darling,” she said as he handed her up into the carriage, “that gentleman is entirely deserving of every bit of praise you have heaped upon him.”

“If you believe it to be so, Helena, darling,” Woolly replied as he clambered in after her, “then you must, of course, be correct.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think? Is this the Myka/HG Regency fic you didn't know you wanted?


	3. Neither Time nor Opportunity

Myka had not had such an enjoyable evening at one of the parties of the Season as she did upon being introduced to Miss Wells. Though Myka had not had much occasion to spend time with members of her own sex since she was forced to abandon it at the age of twelve, having first been at Eton and then, until recently, at war, all the ladies she had conversed with since arriving in London for the Season had been, to her opinion, quite dull. This was especially true when viewed through the lens of Miss Wells, who was certainly the most spirited—and opinionated—woman she had ever encountered.

The next day she learned from Sir Peter, whose own family lived in London and whose mother was well integrated into society, that the extent of her discourse with Miss Wells the previous evening had, it seemed, set tongues wagging.

“It’s well known,” said Sir Peter, upon meeting her for a ride the following morning, “that Mr Wolcott is to marry Miss Wells.”

“She made no mention of such an engagement,” said Myka.

“No, I don’t believe she would have,” he replied. “The Wells family is well known to me, and as the engagement has never been formalized, it would not have been appropriate for her to do so. However, Mr Wolcott is a close friend of the Wellses and has always been an apparent favorite of the lady’s.”

Myka had nothing to say to this, and merely adjusted her seat in the saddle. “She is quite unlike anyone I have ever met,” she admitted eventually.

“I agree that she is quite a singular example of femininity, though she is much too learned and far too vocal about said learning for my taste. But your extended conversation with Miss Wells, however stimulating, has certainly stretched the limits of propriety.”

She coloured at this, and was about to defend her own actions as having been motivated by nothing more than scholarly interest, when they came upon the very object of their converse taking a turn in the company of her brother.

“Sir Peter! Lord Berkeley!” exclaimed Miss Wells. “How fortunate that we should happen upon each other!” Miss Wells then introduced Lord Berkeley to her brother.

“Both Wolcott and my sister speak very highly of you, sir,” said Wells with a bow.

“I am sure they do me great favours in doing so,” she replied.

“How came you to know Sir Peter?” asked Wells. “He is an old acquaintance of our family.”

“We were schooled together at Eton,” said Sir Peter. “And then continued on to His Majesty’s service in each other’s company.”

“I did note at the party last evening that you cut a very dashing figure in your regimentals, Sir Peter,” supplied Miss Wells.

“Indeed, the uniform always suited Pete much better than it suited me!” exclaimed Myka.

This garnered laughter from those assembled, including Sir Peter, who nonetheless rejoined, “Come now Berkeley, red isn’t such a terrible colour on you!”

Myka’s only response to this was, in fact, to turn quite red, an action which, while becoming on ladies, was sometimes seen as a sign of weakness in men—a trait from which Lord Berkeley was keen to distance herself, given the truth of her sex. However, she saw no easy way out of the situation, until assistance came, as it sometimes does, from an entirely unexpected quarter.

“The red is, tactically speaking, quite a poor choice in uniforms,” provided Miss Wells, diverting attention from Myka’s high colour. “It makes the wearer an obvious target, and the sight of it perhaps even enrages his enemies—rather like a matador’s cape to a bull,” she continued, and then added hastily, but smoothly, “or so I would imagine.” It was, of course, rather improper for anyone, much less a lady, to discuss war-making in such an offhand manner, but the courage it took to say such a thing delighted Myka, who laughed heartily.

“You are surely a fortunate man, Mr Wells, to have such a charming and delightful companion in your household,” she said, and then, straightening in the saddle, “I am afraid we have interrupted your walk. Sir Peter and I shall continue on I think. And though I said this to Mr Wolcott but last eve, I think it bears repeating—I shall have to call on you all soon for more such lively discourse.”

She doffed her hat to them, they did their leave-taking, and she and Sir Peter went on their way. It was only upon returning to the Berkeleys’ house in London, and to Myka’s study therein, that Sir Peter gave voice to his concerns about Myka’s apparent, and quite improper, attachment to Miss Wells, though he seemed to struggle to do so.

“Are you so inclined, then, to…romance another female?”

“I do not know, I am afraid,” Myka replied, crossing to the window to contemplate the street outside. “To this point in my life I have had neither time nor opportunity to consider so much as the possibility of romance.”

“Yet the idea Lady Berkeley proposed, of you and I…it did not appeal to you.” This was not a question, so Myka did not answer. “For my own sake, Berkeley, tell me: had it been another man, and not myself, would you have agreed?”

“Of course not!” she cried, turning away from the window, her cheeks red once more. She opened her mouth to explain, closed it again, and then tried once more. “I believe I have simply spent too much time in the company of other men to desire one as a…well, as anything more than a companion and a friend, I suppose.” She paused, realized what she had said— _other men_ —and sighed. “Indeed, the fact that I consider them _other men_ is, to me, rather an indicator of my own feelings.”

Somehow, this seemed to strike Pete as humorous, because he suddenly guffawed. “Well, my own taste in ladies has certainly not rubbed off on you!” he exclaimed. This devolved quickly into a treatise from her friend on the best qualities of a lady, some of which were admittedly quite crass, and none of which included the sort of smart replies Miss Wells was wont to make.

No, it was certain that Sir Peter’s attitudes and feeling towards women had not rubbed off on Myka who, despite having spent twelve years of her life in women’s circles, had thoroughly absorbed the attitudes of _proper_ gentlemen (that is, not Sir Peter, who could at times be a bit vulgar) when it came to women.

Regardless, this did not solve the matter of her fascination with Miss Wells. If, as Pete said, she was to be engaged to Mr Wolcott, then the course of action best complying with propriety would be for Myka to be cautious with her attentions towards the lady, and to keep any and all affection she felt for Miss Wells to herself—no matter how brilliant or handsome she may be. It would surely be a difficult cause, as Myka had seldom met anyone with such a quick mind as Miss Wells, even at school, but as propriety dictated, she must obey, or risk drawing undue attention to herself and, therefore, risk the emergence of her secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos much appreciated!


	4. The Highlight of the Season, and Subsequent Displeasure

The next few weeks were, frankly, the highlight of the Season thus far. Helena’s acquaintance with the entire Berkeley family was solidified over the course of a few parties and visitations, until eventually Helena had to concede that even Miss Bering with all her accomplishments and her fifteen thousand pound fortune was not as dull as she had originally judged her to be.

Though Lady Berkeley was apparently prone to headaches which often kept her at home instead of at social events, through her visits to the Berkeleys’ residence in London Helena had made the woman’s acquaintance as well, and had found her to be as formidable a personage as one might expect from the depth and breadth of knowledge acquired by her son. Though her ladyship had not made many appearances even within her own home, Helena had spoken with her on a few occasions which she thoroughly enjoyed, as Lady Berkeley was quite spirited. Even more enjoyable was watching her interactions with her son, though few were they which Helena witnessed, as Lady Berkeley was in no way hesitant to espouse her opinions to him on nearly any matter.

Lord Berkeley himself was, as Helena had concluded upon their first acquaintance, deserving of every praise she—or Wolcott, who had become equally close with the man—could heap upon him. His lordship was a fine dancer, and seemingly had read every book Helena could think of to discuss with him. Of late, however, he had been reserved enough in her company that she had begun to worry there was something dreadfully wrong which he did not care to share with her, an idea which she found troublesome, for she had thought their friendship on such a footing that he would share any such grievances; Helena had certainly shared quite a few of her own with the man, many of which (usually her judgments of other people) had gotten him laughing in the most delightful way.

She planned to discuss his reticence with him—at length if necessary—at the grand dinner party which she had convinced her father and brother to host that evening, and for which Helena was uncharacteristically excited. No-one she deemed tiresome would be attending, Helena herself had assisted with the menu, and Miss Bering could be relied upon to play a dance tune or two so that, hopefully, Helena could convince his lordship, or at least Woolly, both of whom were acceptable partners, to a dance.

It was indeed a grand dinner party, with many guests—the Lattimers, all three of the Donovan siblings, the Berkeleys, the Frederics (Mrs Irene Frederic and her daughter, Leena, both of whom Helena knew were descended from slaves in the French colonies, a fact which often prevented them from being invited to other social functions but which had never prevented their interaction or acquaintance with Mr Wells and his children), and a few others besides. Even Jeannie Lattimer was present, despite her being deaf, though, as was the case with the Frederics, what was usually an impediment to her integration into society had never hampered her relationship with the Wells family.

At the earliest opportunity—even before dinner was laid—Helena found Lord Berkeley and drew him aside to confront him regarding his relapse into the very same silent, dour man he had been reported to be.

“It is true, Miss Wells, that I have been somewhat preoccupied of late,” Berkeley said with some hesitation. “I had not intended to tell you, or indeed, anyone else, this evening, but I am afraid that my furlough is coming to an end, and I shall soon have to return to the war.”

“But this is terrible news!” she cried. “Berkeley, darling, you have been the highlight of the Season!” To speak so frankly was brash and unbecoming of a lady, but Helena was aghast at the news. Quite why, she could not be certain, for she was well aware that his lordship was not in London with his regiment, but rather, given Claudia’s information, taking a leave to recover from some injury suffered during combat. She supposed the same must be true of Sir Peter, but a quick glance in his direction showed him to be as jovial as ever. “Do you know already when you expect to be called back?”

Though Berkeley had, upon their first meeting, been hesitant to talk of war, time and further attention to their acquaintance had loosened his tongue somewhat, enough that Helena expected he would, in fact, answer the question. And indeed, he did not disappoint her.

“Sadly no, though I am two months into my three months’ furlough. Still, I have had a letter from another officer in our regiment, stating that they expect to see combat quite soon. As Sir Peter and I have both recovered quite well, I have written him to say that we are capable of taking up arms once more, although I do not know if we shall be required to do so before our leave is complete.”

Despite her enthusiasm for the carefully orchestrated evening, this piece of news was enough to cast a pall over Helena’s enjoyment of it, despite the fact that Miss Bering, as she had hoped, was persuaded by Miss Claire Donovan to play several dance tunes, and despite the fact that Berkeley himself asked Helena to dance two of them. No amount of exceptional dancing or witty discourse could deter her from her melancholy.

This state was further worsened when, only a week later, Berkeley came to call upon her family to take his leave. He looked rather ill at ease upon being announced by their butler, and still appeared as awkward in his regimentals as when Helena had first laid eyes upon him. Although the sight of him in his uniform had grown on her, as he wore it to all major social events at which they saw one another, she much preferred him in the plain-clothes he wore in the confines of his own home.

“I shall miss you immensely, Berkeley, darling,” she said, gripping the pen in her hand which she had picked up simply to have something to hold. “London shall be deadly dull with you gone!”

This was, strictly speaking, a sentiment only proper to express to one’s sweet-heart, but Helena did not and never had cared all too much for what was _proper_. Even though Wolcott was in the room also, he was well used to Helena’s moods and her un-ladylike behaviours, and did not object, but rather agreed with her. “It’s a devil of a thing, this business with Napoleon,” he said. “Helena is right. We shall miss you intensely I am sure, but you are going to do our country’s work, are you not? Give him hell for us, Berkeley.”

“I shall endeavour to do so,” he replied with a nod at Woolly. “And you, Miss Wells,” he said, turning towards Helena, “As Sir Peter is leaving as well, I shall rely on you to take care of my sister.” He said this with a smile and obvious mirth, as he had recently learned of her earlier dislike for Miss Bering and now seemed to delight in teasing her about it. “She may be _tiresome_ at times, but she is my sister, and there is no-one else in the ton I should trust half as much to see that she is well as you.” His smile turned distinctly sad as he bowed to her. “Farewell, Miss Wells,” he said, and then, with a glance at Wolcott, “Walk me out, won’t you, Woolly?”

“Of course,” Woolly replied. The two gentlemen left the parlour, and Helena stayed where she had been seated for only a moment before hurrying to the door as quietly as her attire would allow and pressing her ear to its crack to listen.

“I want you to know, Wolcott,” said Berkeley, “that I do not have any designs upon Miss Wells. I daresay I ought to have told you this sooner, indeed as soon as I heard that you two were to be engaged, and for my inaction I apologise most heartily. If you have not been able to find it within yourself to propose to her because of any gossip my actions have instigated—”

“Oh, Berkeley!” cried Woolly. “No, it is not that at all. It is true that I have heard the gossip myself, but any hesitance to propose is my own matter entirely and has nothing to do with you. I have some…delicate financial matters which require resolution before I could, within my own good conscience, ask her to marry me. I do intend to do so, and it is very kind of you to declare yourself free of intentions towards her, but I assure you that it was not necessary.”

Berkeley sighed heavily at this. “It is a great relief to know that I have not come between you,” he said. “Thank you, my friend, for clearing my conscience in this matter.”

“I hold you in the highest esteem, sir,” replied Wolcott. “It is I who should be apologising for not having noticed how it weighed upon you before.”

There was a pause, after which Berkeley said, “Do take care of yourself, Woolly. And take care of her as well.”

“I shall. And try not to get yourself killed, won’t you?” replied Wolcott, with all his usual good humour.

Berkeley affirmed that he would do his best, and they said their good-byes, with Helena returning to her chair before Wolcott could find her listening at the door. She even picked up a long-abandoned bit of sewing to busy her hands, although her mind was certainly busy enough already.

What was she to make of this information? Her mind raced in circles about the unofficial arrangement between her father and Woolly, and Berkeley’s apparently firm decision to renounce any chance at a match in favour of Wolcott, which in turn denied Helena all possibility of choice. This fact frustrated her to no end, and she was of half a mind to pursue his lordship to his residence and demand that he retract his vow to Woolly.

Instead, to vent her own frustration, Helena began to compose a letter to Berkeley. Though she did not intend to send it, the writing helped, and by the time she had expressed every bit of her displeasure with his choice and destroyed the letter, she had calmed enough to see the sense in the situation. After all, Berkeley could very well be killed at war, and Wolcott, while not a very _thrilling_ option, was thoroughly safe and, indeed, _familiar_ , and a match with him would not bring her unhappiness. It would not bring her fortune or title, certainly, but she was certain that being Mrs Wolcott would offer her more freedom than being Lady Berkeley could have.

Perhaps, then, it was for the best that she forget any _inappropriate_ feelings she might harbour for Lord Berkeley. She would instead delight in his friendship, and hope—and pray—for his safe return from France.


	5. A Damn Depressing Outlook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short, but the next one is long to make up for it.

With Sir Peter aware of her _condition_ , it was much easier for Myka to return to her regiment. Pete was usually available to make any necessary excuses for her if she had certain _matters_ to attend to, which Myka had been required to handle on her own the first time round and for which she was extremely grateful now. He was always to hand in battle and in drill to assist or protect her as necessary (and she him), another reason for her frequent expressions of gratitude.

Lastly, Pete made himself useful for those times when Myka despaired of having left London, her family, and, though she did not usually say it, Miss Wells behind. At these times, he was always keen to remind her of _why_ they had acquired commissions in the Army in the first place. He did, however, sometimes commiserate with her, but he was, on occasion, a bit ruthless; where Myka went out of her way to avoid bringing Miss Wells into the conversation, Pete, knowing of her regard for the lady, found reason to do so nearly at every turn, which merely had the effect of keeping the pain of ceding her to Wolcott fresh in Myka’s mind.

In order to process her feelings, Myka began a one-sided correspondence with Miss Wells which was never posted. Though when Sir Peter brought the lady up in conversation, she would endeavour to change the subject, in her letters she allowed herself her true depth of feeling and, though it was unwise and very imprudent to keep them, she found herself unable to dispose of the missives after penning them.

Snatches of these communiques would come to her during travel, or while awaiting combat, and she would struggle to keep them perfectly aligned in her mind until they could be jotted down. Focusing on her tender feelings for Miss Wells, of course, had the added benefit of keeping her from worrying about the war until it was upon her, but even in the heat of battle phrases would appear to her of such brilliance (in her own mind, at any rate) that she felt it was her duty to survive until she could record them.

The letters, then, became less letters and more of a diary, all of the things she wished she could tell Helena—for through this exercise she became Helena in Myka’s mind and not the formal Miss Wells—should the opportunity present itself.

_Oh, that the only battles in which I must partake were those verbal wars we fought in the ballrooms and drawing rooms of London this Season! I know that I have chosen a martial life for myself, but having spent such diverting moments in your company I wish that could lay down my arms and return to you._

Pete, after discovering the veritable hoard of letters and scraps she had penned to Helena, finally relented in his heretofore ruthless exploitation of her sentiments, and instead inquired as to why, precisely, such a thing—Myka and Helena together, that is—was impossible.

“Because it is, Pete!” she exclaimed, snatching the letters back from him. And then she admitted that she had told Wolcott she would not marry Helena, and that he should do so himself, as soon as he was able.

“And if she feels for you the same way you do for her?” he asked.

“But it would be a lie,” she replied miserably. “Do you not recall how angry you were when you discovered how long I had been dishonest with you?”

“Well yes, of course, but…that was _years_ of dishonesty, Berkeley.” Pete was still in the habit of calling her Berkeley; though he had inquired as to her real name, he seldom, if ever, used it. He had explained that it was best if he did _change_ his habit so that he did not make any ill-advised mistakes. “This is a matter of months that you’ve known Miss Wells.”

“And yet you would have me marry her and continue to lie to her afterwards? Or, worse, tell her the truth of my heart, and of—of me, and have her spread it about, and ruin my family, especially my sister, the only hope of an heir to my title? I think not. My family, Nielsen, Dr Miller…all of them have worked much too hard to get me to where I am today. I shan’t risk that for…for the paltriest chance at happiness.”

“You would be miserable, then, the rest of your life?”

She sighed. “I have resigned myself to a life of solitude. I am very fortunate, you know, to have friends such as yourself, and family members, who know the right of me, and who have not—shunned me as they might have. I do not think that I am destined to happiness in the form of…romance, or what have you. Not to be entirely alone is the best, I believe, that I can hope for.”

“That’s a damn depressing outlook on life, my friend.”

“Yes, well, it is what I have to look forward to.”

And that was the truth of it. Despite her love for Helena, despite her dreams and her wishes that her life could be different, Myka knew that happiness such as the kind Pete wanted for her was not to be had, at least not for her. Not for a person—a woman—living her life as a man, incapable of carrying on her own family name. She would be lucky to live a long and healthy life surrounded by her family and such friends as Sir Peter, or even her valet, Jinks, one of the few others who knew her truth. If she was very fortunate, she would find a few others whom she could trust enough to tell her secret, and she would not have to live such a bold-faced lie. Perhaps she would be able, at some point in her life, to go about a day where she did not have to bind the breasts she had come to loathe so tightly to her chest, or to pretend an extraordinarily close shave.

But that day was nowhere in sight, and for the moment, “damn depressing” though it was, the hope of such a day—and the letters that she wrote to Helena—were all that she had to see her to it.


	6. A Long-Delayed Engagement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of what I already have written, but I have the rest of it outlined and should hopefully be able to post more soon.

Though Woolly was very attentive, he did not propose, a fact which, she believed, would have garnered more attention (and gossip) had Berkeley not returned to war. It was, in Berkeley’s absence, simply assumed once more that she would one day be Mrs William Wolcott.

Helena had accepted this as a probability, and though she did still harbour some tender feelings for Lord Berkeley, she was gradually replacing them with sound reason and logic regarding Woolly’s place in her life and that of her family. It was only natural that they marry, two friends as dear as they. Though there would be no romance and no charm to such a union, it would be enjoyable enough in its way. Woolly, certainly, had never, and would never, if he knew what was good for him, challenge Helena in her choice of pursuits, and she would have the freedom to go about without putting Charles to the inconvenience of accompanying her as chaperone.

Still, without Berkeley, the remainder of the Season was, as Helena had predicted, dreadfully dull. She had, however, promised his lordship that she would ensure Miss Bering fared well, so Helena visited her regularly, and introduced her to many of Charles’ and Woolly’s friends in hopes of finding her a suitable husband (which Berkeley had mentioned before was one of his few fervent desires, to see her happily settled). Though they did not become great friends, Helena found by the end of the Season that she had a certain fondness for the girl, enough that when Charles, Woolly, and her father were discussing where to spend the remainder of the summer, she suggested that Gloucestershire, the locale of Berkeley Castle, seemed an appropriate place to visit for some months.

Somewhat to her surprise, her father assented, and before long Helena found herself ensconced in a rented house not far from Berkeley Castle itself, directing the serving staff to send her visitation card to the Berkeley family, and only a day or so later, accepting a visit from Miss Bering herself.

“Miss Wells!” she cried, upon entering the parlour, “it is so delightful to see you again so soon!”

Helena insisted then upon the use of their Christian names, and after some effusive praise from Tracy, the two of them made small talk about the weather in Gloucestershire, which soon turned, as was likely inevitable, to the health of her family.

“Mother is doing well,” said Tracy. “Her headaches are much better here at home than they were in London. I believe the climate there did not suit her.”

“And your brother?” asked Helena, perhaps without subtlety. “Have you heard from him?”

“We have had a few letters,” she replied, seeming suddenly unhappy. “They were all very brief, and sounded quite melancholy. I think war-making does not suit him.”

“But he is well?”

“Oh! Yes, apparently he is well, as is Sir Peter. There has been some fighting—of course there has been fighting, it is war, after all—but neither of them has suffered any injury of late. At least, not that he has written. I do worry so for him, dear man.”

Hearing that he was whole and uninjured was heartening. “He told me he is quite skilled with a sword,” said Helena. “I am certain he shall come through, and return to you soon.” She changed the subject then, to what pursuits were common in Gloucestershire, and Tracy went on for some time about the sights and other such nonsense for which Helena did not, admittedly, much care. But by the time she had to return home, it had been agreed that the Wellses _must_ come up to Berkeley Castle for dinner in a night or two, and that Tracy would ensure a proper invitation was sent round.

As Helena returned from seeing her out, she overheard raised voices from the room her father had taken on as a study for their stay in the area. Unable to resist, she crept towards the door and, as she had so often before, listened in on the conversation.

“I am losing my patience with you, Wolcott. If you do not wish to marry Helena you had best say so, so that I might move on to find her another suitable match.” That was her father.

There was a pause, and then Woolly spoke up. “Sir, I would like nothing more than to marry your daughter, as you well know. But I have a debt of honour that must be repaid, and I should not like to—”

“How much do you owe?” That was Charles.

“Ten thousand pounds,” admitted Wolcott.

“What! Such a sum?” cried her father.

“What have you gotten yourself into?” asked Charles.

Wolcott did not answer.

“Damn you, William,” growled her father. “You know full well I cannot finance your entire life with her, so god help me—”

“I am working to pay off the debt!” Woolly exclaimed. “In the past month I have already secured a thousand pounds towards my debt, and should be able to see the rest paid in the course of a year, or perhaps—”

“Even with Helena’s six thousand you are only likely to break even,” said Charles. “Father, can we not find the other three to see Woolly free of his debt? He is a sound businessman, I know, and will be well able to provide for Helena, and she will be happy with him. Of how many other men can this be said?”

It was true that she had had no other suitors. Well, aside from Berkeley, who Helena was still not entirely sure counted, as he had never expressed his sentiments. Charles was quite right; if Woolly’s debts could be paid, then he, of all men, would be able to find a way toward prosperity. She was not accustomed to running a house with tight purse strings, but she could learn, and as she had already convinced herself, he would make her as happy as she could reasonably expect to be.

There was a long silence, until finally her father said, in heavy, measured tones, “It is a great imposition, and we shall feel its effects, doubtless, for the next long while. If I see you clear of your debt, you will repay me in kind, Wolcott. If it takes you twenty years, I _will_ see the debt repaid. But I cannot in good conscience have you marry my daughter with a debt of honour weighing upon you.”

Woolly started in to grateful groveling, and Helena, feeling heavy herself with the news that her father had essentially bought her a husband—even if it was her dear Woolly—came away from the door, hoping that a walk in the gardens might lift her spirits.

It was not to be, however, for no sooner had she sat upon a bench among the midsummer roses did Woolly appear on the path, obviously intent on speaking to her.

“I heard you had come to the gardens,” he said upon arriving.

This was quite possibly one of the dullest things he had ever said to her. She rolled her eyes. “Yes, and here I am. You are very observant, Wolcott.”

Woolly hesitated, and then asked if he could join her on the bench. When she assented, he seated himself and, as they both looked out upon the gardens, he spoke again. “You know, Helena,” he said, “you are very dear to me.”

She did not respond, but turned slightly so that she could see his expression more clearly. All the blood seemed to have drained from his countenance, and he seemed far more anxious than she had ever seen him before. His lips were quivering, as if he wished to continue speaking but was uncertain if he was capable of so doing. Taking pity upon him, Helena covered one of his hands with her own.

“We have never spoken outright about our feelings for one another, darling,” she said, deliberately eliminating the use of his name to make her speech more intimate. “But you must know that I hold you very dear as well.”

“Yes, yes of course,” he stammered, clasping both of his hands around hers. His fingers were unnaturally chilled for such a warm day, but given the conversation she had just overheard she could only assume it was because of nerves more than anything else. “I had always hoped—that is, your father—” He let forth a great sigh of exasperation and curled his fingers more tightly around her own. “I believe…you would do me a great honour if you would agree to be my wife,” he said, looking up into her eyes. She saw in his familiar gaze the echo of that same anxiety which seemed to wrack his body, and she wanted nothing more than to agree and to set him at ease, but poor Wolcott kept babbling. “You would make me so truly, very happy by giving me your assent. And I think—I hope—that I could bring you joy as well. Is…is that not so?”

“Woolly,” she said quietly, smiling at him, and then, to gentle him, she addressed him anew with a smile and with his Christian name, continuing on to reassure him of her own regard for him, and that she believed, as did he, that they could make one another quite happy indeed. Of her own private musings about Lord Berkeley, of course, she said nothing, but her words of affection were enough, it seemed, to return the colour to his cheeks, and to earn her a gallant, delighted press of his lips to her hands.

“You have put me quite at ease, Helena,” he said, with another kiss to her hands. “I had begun to despair that you would never be mine but—that is in the past, and in the future…we shall be nothing short of blissfully happy, I expect.”

They exchanged a few more words on the subject, and Woolly took his leave of her, stating that he must go speak to her father and Charles, and inform them of this delightful turn of events. He left her in the garden as before; despite the confirmation, at last, of their engagement, however, she was left feeling quite as ill at ease as she had upon overhearing of his debts.

What in the world, after all, had Woolly gotten into that had resulted in his owing such a sum? She hoped whatever it was that it was in the past, and that she had not just figuratively lashed herself to the mast of a sinking ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!


	7. A Strong Sense of Foreboding

Much had happened since Myka and Pete’s return to the Army. Their regiment had fought—and won—several battles, including, at least according to their commander, the Marquess of Wellington, a battle with French troops at Toulouse only days after Napoleon had surrendered. Shortly after that, the Emperor had been exiled to Elba, and Myka’s regiment was left, along with troops from a few other sectors of the Sixth Coalition, in control of the city to ensure the safety of its citizens, above all the French loyalists in the region who had hailed their entry in the first place.

This task, unfortunately, left her with quite a bit more time on her hands than she had had before, a fact which she did not relish and which left her very melancholy indeed, as it seemed she had nothing but time to consider the sad state of her life. Her solitude, in fact, only worsened, as Sir Peter began spending quite a bit of time with the family of one of their superiors, one Colonel Martin, whose daughter, Miss Amanda Martin, he seemed quite taken with. So enchanted was he, in fact, that even before the end of summer, the two were engaged, set to be wed at whatever point their regiment was returned to England.

It came as some relief when, in mid-August, they received word that the Coalition forces were to be slowly withdrawn from Toulouse, and that their regiment in particular was to return to England for a well-deserved furlough, especially given Napoleon’s surrender and subsequent exile. At least back at Berkeley there would be work to be done, accounts to be reviewed and plans to be made for the lands and such similar matters which would, hopefully, require enough of her attention as to distract her from her miserable state.

And indeed, when she finally arrived home, it was to a warm welcome from her mother and sister, which was enough to raise her spirits—at least until, over dinner that same evening, Tracy recounted all the news and gossip which she had not sent Myka by post, including the rather devastating fact that Miss Wells and Mr Wolcott were, at last, engaged. This should not have surprised Myka, as she herself had encouraged Wolcott to make such an offer, but hearing it had finally been done left her in a foul mood which was, sadly, not improved by the news that the Wells family, with Wolcott, were staying nearby for some two weeks more.

Myka, as was expected of her, pretended enthusiasm, and insisted that they should have the family over to celebrate the engagement. Her mother and sister were well disposed towards the idea themselves and, it seemed, had only been putting off the party in hopes that Myka might be home in time to host it herself. Now that said hopes had come to pass, the party was inevitable—no matter the pain Myka was certain it would cause her to see Helena—Miss Wells, she corrected herself—in Wolcott’s company, knowing this time that they truly were promised to one another.

After supper Myka begged off further company, saying that the journey home had quite exhausted her, and retreated to her own rooms, first to bury among her things the letters which she had written to Hel— _Miss Wells_ , and second to pour herself a generous brandy and toast her own unhappiness.

The party came upon them very soon, in a matter of days. When the Wellses arrived, Helena looked even more radiant than Myka had remembered, and greeted Myka with a kiss to the cheek which left her speechless.

It took all her considerable self-control to appear pleased for her and Wolcott. She choked out her congratulations to them, and through dinner suffered talk of wedding plans, including the like of which she had never heard Hele— _Miss Wells_ engage in before, all about fabrics and colours and such frippery. Myka introduced the subject of Pete’s own engagement merely to divert the conversation, which kept them on safe ground for some good while. Though, of course, as could be expected given the company, and her own sister’s penchant for romance and exactly the sorts of nonsense towards which Myka had not thought Miss Wells disposed, talk soon returned to her wedding to Wolcott. It was quite a relief when the ladies excused themselves from table, leaving the gentlemen to their drink, for it meant Myka could busy her mouth with a cigar rather than idle chatter.

But, of course, silence did not reign for long, and to her chagrin, Woolly teasingly demanded to know when Myka herself would be married. Myka had no good rejoinder to this, but to her good fortune, Charles came to her defense, stating that the two of them would be bachelors together for as long as they liked. With that, the subject came to a close, at least for the moment, and the men gathered pressed her instead for tales of the campaign which Myka was only too happy to supply so long as it meant she did not have to discuss any more weddings.

When they rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Myka found herself occupied by Miss Wells, who had apparently been unable to find anyone quite as well-matched for her intellect when it came to literature as Myka herself while she was away. Remarkably, while in discourse with Miss Wells, Myka managed to forget for some time that Helena was engaged to another man, and simply enjoyed, as she often had, their discussion.

However, when quite some time had passed and she realized Tracy had not yet been called upon to play their very fine piano-forte, Myka took a moment to examine the room. Although Lady Berkeley was present, and entertaining the Misters Wells, Tracy was nowhere to be found nor, indeed, was Wolcott. A strong sense of foreboding struck her all at once—similar, Myka supposed, to the “gut feelings” Pete suffered—and she made her excuses to Miss Wells and withdrew to locate her sister.

It was, of course, possible that Tracy had simply withdrawn from the room to refresh herself, but Myka was nearly certain that would not be the case. She checked with a passing maid, enquiring about Miss Bering’s whereabouts, and was told that she believed the young lady had gone into the parlour.

Leaning in, the maid added, “And I think that gentleman Mr Wolcott was with her,” as if it were quite the most scandalous thing she had ever seen occur.

Cautious now, Myka edged along the wall towards the parlour where, in truth, she heard low voices through the cracked door. Fully aware that she was eavesdropping, she stood at the crack for a moment, hoping to glean some piece of conversation. Perhaps it was innocent—perhaps Wolcott merely wanted to thank Tracy in private for some act she had provided which assisted in his courtship of Helena, but…

“I hate to see you marry her, Woolly,” sighed Tracy. “To think that she will be in your company every day, and I shall be here, alone…”

“You had many prospects in London, my dear, did you not?”

“Well, yes,” admitted Tracy, “but none quite like _you_.”

Dear Lord! It was exactly as Myka had feared. Miss Wells was awaiting the day of her marriage with bated breath, and her lover was making love to another lady—and Myka’s own sister! She could not bear such a thing, much less under her own roof! No—this would have to be put to rights, and at once!

Myka burst through the door, her expression murderous, and was able to see Tracy and Wolcott holding hands before the fireplace for a split second before Tracy withdrew with a gasp. Wolcott threw himself between them, spouting words of how he could not help himself in loving her sister, until Myka cut him off with an imperious gesture. “I shall not tolerate you making love to my sister in this house, sir,” she said. “You, Mr Wolcott, a man engaged to be married! And to one such as Miss Wells! I should challenge you right here and now for such outrageous conduct.” A baleful glare made his face turned ghastly white, and Myka believed he was nigh on the verge of blubbering before her. “It would not, however, be a fair fight, so you may consider yourself fortunate to escape my blade.”

“Your lordship, I—”

“I should have you thrown out of this place. I should tell Miss Wells right this minute what has been going on beneath her very nose!” Thoroughly enraged, Myka turned to her sister, demanding to know how long this had been going on. And then, somewhat timidly, Tracy, with occasional assistance from Wolcott, explained the whole nature of the affair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (not sorry) for the cliffhanger! Should get resolved soon.


	8. Impertinent and Shrewish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the cliffhanger is resolved...

The morning following the dinner party at Berkeley Castle, Helena was surprised to find a letter awaiting her at breakfast. It was penned in Woolly’s familiar handwriting, and as he was not at the table, she assumed he must have had business to attend to and could no longer stay in the country. But as soon as she opened the letter, she learned quite quickly that this was not the case.

_My dear Helena,_

_It is with some trepidation that I write you this letter, but it must be said: Miss Bering and I have eloped to Gretna Green._

At this point, she almost dropped the letter in shock, because how could it be possible? Tracy and Wolcott had, to her knowledge, not spent all that much time in each other’s company although, she had to admit, she could not be certain, as often she had been too distracted by the presence of Lord Berkeley to be aware of what Tracy or Wolcott might be up to.

She picked up where she had left off, reading quite a lot of nonsense that directly contradicted everything Woolly had said to her in the garden—that he loved her more as a sister than as a lover, that he believed with time they would have made one another miserable, and that he had very little to offer her in the way of adventure or, indeed, great mental faculties to challenge her own (which, she had to agree, was true; though she adored Woolly, he had sometimes struggled to keep up with her intellect). He continued on to state that he and Tracy had held each other in high esteem since rather early on in their acquaintance, and then to admit what she had overheard, that he had quite a large debt hanging over him, and that marriage to Miss Bering would appease his creditors whereas marriage to Helena would have left them both to suffer as debtors, a situation he did not wish to set upon her.

More than any of this, however, it was the ending of his letter which struck her, and which she could not get out of her mind:

_It has been no great secret to me that your affections, as it were, lie with another. Lord Berkeley is as fine a man as you could hope for, and much more capable than I of providing you with all of the things which you could desire for your life. And if you believe that your case with the man is hopeless, I do not think it so—and nor does his sister._

She had not thought herself so transparent, but she supposed she must be. She was well aware, after all, of the gossip that she and Lord Berkeley had incited in London that Season, but Berkeley had made no indication that he wished to court her, much less marry her! How could Woolly be so certain?

Her dis-ease must have shown on her face, because Charles looked intently at her from across the table and inquired as to the source of her distraction. Unsure of how else to explain, she passed the letter over to him, and shortly thereafter had the pleasure of watching him crumple the paper with a curse, and dash off to find their father, after which quite a lot of shouting ensued, including some threats against Wolcott.

The two of them had just quieted when Berkeley himself appeared, and as Charles was still closeted with her father, Helena did not hesitate to receive him herself.

“I assume you have heard the news,” she said, wishing Charles had not taken the letter.

“Yes,” he said slowly, removing his hat and gloves and taking the seat which she offered him. “I found Wolcott with my sister in the parlour together last eve and confronted them. I did not wish to break up the party with such a scandal, but I am glad to have intervened.”

“Intervened!” Helena repeated, incredulous. “My fiancé and your sister have run off to be married over the anvil, and you have _intervened_ on their behalf?”

Berkeley, she noticed, seemed momentarily at a loss for words. But then he straightened in his chair and put his hat and gloves to one side. “I do not regret having spared you such misfortune, Miss Wells, as to be married to a man who cares for another. In fact, I believe I have _intervened_ ,” he paused to give her an arch look, “at just the right time to save your reputation from further damage.”

“My reputation! You must be daft, to think I give a fig about my reputation. I am well aware of how the society ladies look at me—impertinent and shrewish, I believe, are two words commonly used in regards to my self, but that has never changed nor influenced my behaviour one whit. If it had, then I should never have developed such a friendship with _you_ , your lordship.”

He appeared to struggle once more; Helena was certain he had much less trouble fighting the French than he seemed to be having in this conversation. “I must admit that my actions in the matter have also been motivated by—more personal reasons.”

Recalling the last bit of Woolly’s letter, Helena found herself suddenly short of breath. Was it true, then, that Berkeley returned her feelings after all?

“It may come as a surprise to you, but I—I love you, Helena. I do love you, and have loved you, most ardently, since our very first meeting.”

For once in her lifetime, Helena Wells found herself speechless.

Berkeley, seeming to take her silence as a poor sign indeed, went rather red in the face. “Oh—you do not—I am sorry. Wolcott and Tracy both said—I had thought perhaps—but we have all been mistaken.” Apparently crestfallen, he shot out of his seat and gathered his things. “I shall leave you then, and we shall never speak of this—”

“Wait!” Helena cried, finding her voice once more, and joining Berkeley on her own feet. “I am—that is, I had hoped to myself when we were in London that you might feel as you do, for I—oh, darling Berkeley! I think that I have loved you just as long.”

“Can this be true?” he asked with some wonder.

“I do not deal in falsehoods, darling,” she replied, her heart near to bursting with sudden joy. Though she had thought herself content to marry Wolcott, never had he incited such _passion_! Truly, if Berkeley had had some hand in seeing Woolly married to Miss Bering, then she had twice as many reasons to bestow her gratitude upon him.

He crossed the distance between them and took one of her hands with his own, calloused from sword and pistol, and, as Wolcott had so shortly before, pressed one sweet kiss to it. “I had not intended to ask you upon the same day as such misfortune befell you, but I find myself quite overcome and I find that I must.” He paused, sighed her name in the most reverent way she could imagine, and then asked, “Would you consent to be my wife?”

“Yes, of course!”

He pulled back, his cheeks colouring again, and dropped her hand as if he had been burned. “I—I am sorry. There is…well. Before you agree to—to being saddled with me, there is…in full disclosure, there is a matter of some delicacy which we ought to discuss.” He appeared quite wracked with anxiety, and Helena found herself approaching him, resting her hand upon his arm.

“Darling, I am sure it cannot be such a terrible thing, whatever it might be.”

She watched his green eyes run across the planes of her face, and then turn away from her entirely, and she could only imagine the heavy thoughts that must have crossed his mind given the many expressions which creased his mouth in such a short time.

“It is with regards to the…nature of the injury I suffered last winter,” he finally said, looking anywhere but directly at her. His cheeks were a brighter red than she had ever seen them before, but she was certain that whatever he was struggling with could not render him weak in her eyes. “I am…I fear that I shall not be able to give you any children.”

Though it took her a few moments to process this piece of news, once she had absorbed it thoroughly, she laughed. “You buffoon! I couldn’t care less about not having any children. I care only for your happiness, and my own.”

He seemed taken aback at her fervent speech, stepping away from her in surprise. “You mean—it does not bother you, not to have any children to mother?”

“Ghastly things, children,” she said, with all the good cheer she could muster. “Though I am sure we shall have _some_ in our lives, at least from Wolcott and your sister.”

“Your sister, too,” said Berkeley gently.

Helena smiled. “Yes, and Wolcott shall indeed become the brother he always ought to have been.” She paused, laughed again, and stepped close to him once more. “I cannot say that I regret this turn of events.”

“Nor I,” he replied, smiling down at her and recapturing her hands with his.

Raised voices from down the hall reminded her of Charles’ quick departure for her father’s study. “You ought to speak to my father,” she said, pressing his hands with her own. “Now, I think, before he has cause to send Charles after Wolcott with sword in hand.”

“Yes,” Berkeley said, looking with some surprise towards the source of the tumult. “Yes, I shall do so.” He glanced back towards her, smiled again, and asked, “Will you await me here?”

True to her impertinent nature, Helena leaned up and pressed her lips to his in a brief, chaste kiss. “I shall always wait for you, darling.”

With a grin that was the very incarnation of incandescent happiness, Berkeley turned on his heel and went to speak to her father.


	9. The Fearless Lord Berkeley Trembles Before his Lady

Mr Wells had clearly been in some fit of pique before Myka’s arrival, exceedingly displeased with the loss of the nine thousand pounds which he had loaned to Wolcott given that he would now quite obviously not be marrying his daughter, closely followed by the notion that Helena would now be without prospects. But upon hearing that both of these matters had been settled, and all at once, he seemed to be put to rights once more—especially when Myka produced the banker’s draft which Wells had had drawn up to see Wolcott clear of his debts, thus ensuring that he could return the funds to his own account without concern.

Upon hearing that Myka herself had furnished Wolcott with sufficient funds to pay his debt of honour, Wells was only too pleased to discuss terms of the marriage contract between Berkeley and his daughter. Some rudimentary agreements were made—including the rather strange one that Berkeley insisted upon, that Helena herself must be given the chance to provide her input as well—before they concluded it would be best to let their solicitors work out the minutiae, and Wells gave Myka a hearty handshake and exclaimed that he was only too pleased to have Berkeley as his son. And for Helena to have a title as well! It was more than he had ever dared hope, he said, for a daughter as headstrong as Helena.

On returning to her estate, bursting with the news, Myka located her mother and informed her of her good fortune in receiving the consent of both father and daughter. Lady Berkeley, however, was not as pleased as Myka had expected.

“But how can you countenance such a wild notion, my dear? Surely it is unfair to Miss Wells to enter into a union from which she will doubtless find it very difficult to escape when she does not know of your condition.”

This, of course, was the favoured way of referring to the lie that had been created all those years ago: that Myka had a “condition.” It was, in all honesty, quite a versatile word; it cast little to no suspicion on the family as a whole and was, given Myka’s late brother’s sickly nature as a child, very believable, and best of all, required no further elaboration, for the mere action of refusing to put a name to the problem indicated to those who heard of it that it was a _sensitive_ matter, and not to be discussed openly.

“She loves me,” said Myka, feeling quite like a stubborn child in having to defend herself from her own mother.

“She loves Lord Berkeley,” rejoined Lady Berkeley. “She is doubtless after your title and your money and nothing else.”

Bristling, Myka replied, “And I would let her have them, even if that were the case! She has brought me more happiness this day than I have had in _years_. That is, I think, worth any title I could bestow upon her.”

“And what of your heirs? Will Tracy be left to produce all of the children in this family?”

“We have been through all of this before!” she cried, for indeed, it was a discussion which had been had many times over the years. Though Myka was prepared to make her usual points, her mother seemed to light upon another one of her _brilliant_ ideas even before she could begin to do so.

“Perhaps Sir Peter could be prevailed upon! In the dark, one man is like to another, and if this wife whom you seem so intent upon taking could come to be with child, then—”

“Mother!” Myka cried, certain she had never been more furious with the woman in all her life. “I shall not hear one more _word_ spoken of such a thing! It is beyond absurd and crosses far into the realm of indecency, not to mention is perhaps the most _demeaning_ way you could _possibly_ speak of the woman I intend to marry. If you find yourself incapable of holding your tongue I shall see to it that room is made for my lady by removing _you_ to the dower house!”

Lady Berkeley was quite overcome by this statement, and called upon her maid to have Myka thrown out. Though Myka was certainly angry enough to resist, she had had her say upon the matter and relented, repairing to her study. Upon reflection, it had been quite cruel to threaten her own mother as she had, implying that she would not hesitate to force her out of Berkeley Castle and to the smaller dower house on the estate which existed precisely to house the widow of a former lord, or the family of an older son. Still, Myka was incensed enough by the enormous slight Lady Berkeley had done to Helena by suggesting that she would not know the difference between Myka and another man that she did not return to her mother and offer an apology.

Though Lady Berkeley continued to vocalise her displeasure with the match, plans for the wedding went forward. Myka, hoping to avoid any potential embarrassment caused by her _condition_ , saw to it that a Bishop’s License was procured, so that, as the case would have been by law without the license, the public was not presented with six separate opportunities to impede or prevent the wedding (thrice in Myka’s home church, and thrice in Helena’s).

They were married at the church the Wellses attended in London, with Sir Peter standing up with Myka and Miss Claudia Donovan attending Helena, who Myka was certain looked lovelier than ever in a new gown of fashionable green. Afterwards, the four of them, along with Charles, returned to the home of the Wells family for the wedding breakfast, where they were received joyously by their family—less joyously, as had been expected, by Lady Berkeley—and all their friends, including even Mr and Mrs Wolcott, who, upon their return from Scotland, had taken up lodgings not far from the Wellses.

They departed that very same day for their bridal tour, intending to visit certain members of the Wells family who had not been able to arrange to come for the wedding, as well as Myka’s lone uncle. The first night of their marriage was thus spent in an inn on the road from London, in one room for the two of them, as was rather expected of a new couple.

Though Helena had delighted her in the carriage on their journey to the inn, faced with the prospect of undressing before her, Myka found herself struck by a fear far surpassing any she had felt before, even on the battlefield with Napoleon’s forces, for the stakes, this time, were much higher. Suddenly, all the warnings and uncharitable words the now-Dowager Lady Berkeley had thrust upon her seemed, in truth, very reasonable. She was, after all, risking the safety, security, and reputation of her entire family on a woman who did not know her secret and who, if—or when—she found out, would thus be able to see Myka hanged for impersonating a lord, and her mother disgraced, should she like to do so.

Though Myka had never once doubted her ability, or her right, to blend in, first with the boys at Eton, and then with the men of her regiment, as she moved to unbutton her waistcoat in front of Helena, she found herself trembling, a very uncharacteristic action indeed.

And, of course, as she wished mightily that Helena would not, the lady took note.

“Darling, your hands are shaking,” she said gently, removing the final pin from her hair, sending it cascading into a dark halo around her pale face as she stood from her chair and moved towards Myka.

“Oh,” replied Myka, quite dumbly, seating herself on the first available surface—a nearby trunk—and curling her fingers around its edge to mask her dis-ease.

“What folly!” exclaimed Helena with a smile, halting between Myka’s spread legs. “The fearless Lord Berkeley, so famed for his prowess with a sword, trembles before his lady.” Her delicate hands came to rest upon Myka’s shoulders, smoothing down her strong arms and then raking gently through her hair. “You have nothing to fear from me, love.”

“You must think it absurd,” murmured Myka, lifting her own hands to rest them on Helena’s hips before her. “It is just—I have not—” she sighed, quite exasperated at her own inability to turn a phrase. After a moment, she closed her eyes, allowed Helena to draw her forward until her head rested against her lady’s abdomen, and said, “I do not wish you to see my wounds.”

“Is that all?” replied Helena with some surprise, her fingers still carding through Myka’s curls. “If it displeases my lord,” she added, with a gentle tug to pull Myka away, “then of course I shall not look.”

Greatly relieved, Myka stood, pulling her wife into an embrace. “Thank you. It will set me quite at ease to know that you—that you have not seen those parts of me of which I am, for lack of a better word, ashamed.”

Helena leaned up to kiss her, leaving them both smiling when she pulled away. “Though I do not think I could find a single part of you shameful, darling, I am well aware that we are all given to fear, rational or no.” She plucked gently, then, at Myka’s waistcoat, before turning away. “I promise I shan’t so much as bat an eye in your direction ‘til you say otherwise.”

This time, when Myka went to remove her waistcoat, her hands did not tremble at all.


	10. Unorthodox Methods of Investigation

Thus far, being the Viscountess Berkeley had not altered Helena’s attitudes or actions. It had, truth be told, been little more than a fortnight since she had _become_ the Viscountess Berkeley, but that amount of time, short as it was, had not been enough, as of yet, for her to be used to the change in her station. Indeed, she found it quite jarring still to be addressed as “your ladyship,” and though, with practice, she was becoming used to responding to “Lady Berkeley,” she had spent all the years of her life to that point as Miss Wells or, simply, Helena, and now it seemed only Berkeley himself addressed her as such. That is not to say that she did not _enjoy_ her new form of address, or that she _disliked_ Berkeley’s use of her Christian name. Quite to the contrary! Nearly every time she was addressed directly in those early days of her marriage, she felt a thrill of happiness knowing that she, above all others, was Berkeley’s wife.

It gave her the _greatest_ pleasure, however, to drop casually, in converse or correspondence, the phrase “my dear Berkeley,” letting the whole world know that he was _hers_. For in truth, he was as ideal a husband as she could ever have dared hope: undeniably brave and strong, while still remaining gallant and, what was most unusual, quite obviously _interested_ in hearing her opinions on nearly all matters. They were, of course, already well acquainted, but in spending nearly every waking moment in his company, she was treated to an even closer look into the workings of his sharp mind, and every piece of his insight brought her further into awe of the man who, at the same time, was quite clearly in awe of her, as well.

His awe of her, however, did not again extend so far as it had their first eve as husband and wife, for after that singular instance Berkeley did not show so much as the slightest tremor when they retired for the night. He did not, however, ever seem to relax entirely. Where Helena, who had never been much a one for self-consciousness, did not hesitate to undress before her husband, she had, to that point, never seen him undress fully before _her_ , always keeping on, at the very least, his shirt. Even when he changed into a nightshirt, he would leave the day’s regular shirt on, and then remove it only once he had pulled the nightshirt over his head. Helena supposed this was due to, as he had made mention, some grievous injury he had suffered in the war which he did not wish her to see. This notion was further supported by the absolute fact that Berkeley seemed to keep his chest dressed in bandages, the outline of which could be seen through the thin fabric of his shirt or nightshirt.

But Helena had always been far too curious for her own good. This inclination had gotten her into trouble many a time, especially when she was very young and had little or no understanding of social graces, and her poor father had often been forced to explain or apologize for her improper acts or questions. Though to date she had largely grown out of that rather unfortunate habit, from time to time she still suffered from occasional bouts of her youthful curiosity which would lead to actions that were, to put it rather lightly, less than wise.

As perhaps ought to have been expected, with no other likely targets, Helena’s curiosity had turned upon her husband. In most regards, this was not an issue, as Berkeley was usually quite forthcoming, and very tolerant of her questioning. He did not hesitate to share many, often humorous, tales of his time at Eton with Sir Peter, or even, on occasion, of the war, although frequently such discourse would make him turn melancholy, or even silence him completely, at which point Helena, aware that his mood was caused by her line of questioning, would make every effort to turn the subject to something else in order to draw him back out.

However, as Helena _knew_ that Berkeley did not enjoy talk of his experiences at war, that was, of course, the subject upon which her curiosity had fixed. Most fascinating to her, of course, as it was the _one_ matter of which Berkeley refused to speak, was his injury—what he had, in passing, referred to once as his “condition.” When Helena had, somewhat hesitantly, enquired after the exact nature of said condition, her husband, ordinarily so gentle and thoughtful with her, reacted with such shocking vitriol that she knew the matter to be closed, and concluded that if she wanted answers of any sort, she would have to solve the mystery herself.

Naturally, the simplest, most logical, and least _invasive_ way to find the answers she sought would have been to write a letter to Sir Peter enquiring about the subject. But as Helena had never been one to choose the simplecourse of _anything_ , all throughout their bridal tour she found herself wondering what, precisely, lay beneath his clothes that he so did not wish her to see. And, as she knew that their return to Berkeley Castle would see her installed in her own suite of rooms and no longer sleeping by her husband’s side each night, she was well aware that any chance for the employ of unorthodox (that is to say, improper) methods of investigation was rapidly coming to a close. In fact, with the rather dull family visits now in the past, they were scheduled to return to Berkeley in only a few days’ time, which meant that any action on her part needed to be undertaken _soon_.

So, though it was _extremely_ unwise, and was, indeed, a breach of her esteemed husband’s trust, with only a scant few miles between Lord and Lady Berkeley and their home (their _new_ home, in Helena’s case), her ladyship began her inquest.

Upon retiring for the night, Helena pretended sleep for quite some time until, at last, she was certain Berkeley was in as deep a sleep as could be expected. Then, taking great care not to disturb her husband, she rolled in the bed to face him and began, slowly, to peel back the coverlet.

As she worked, she was grateful for the bright light of the moon streaming through their window, illuminating each piece of Berkeley which she exposed. First, his chest, covered in the nightshirt, with the now-familiar visage of the bandages beneath, their whiteness glowing through the thin fabric he wore; this marked the first point of Helena’s investigation.

She was even more careful with the nightshirt than she had been with the coverlet, delicately untying the knot at the neck and then separating the sides of the collar until a good portion of bandaged chest could be seen. At this point, she paused, glancing at her sleeping lord’s face, so peaceful in slumber, and considered once more the massive breach of trust entailed in this act. But Berkeley slept on so ignorantly, so heavily, that Helena could not resist.

A gentle hand found the edge of the wrappings and began to pull, and it took only moments before her husband’s chest was, in part, laid bare in the moonlight.

Upon absorbing the truth her eyes impressed upon her, of the swell of a lady’s bosom, half flattened beneath the rucked-up bandages, Helena gasped—once, and rather sharply. Fully aware that the noise might startle her husband—could this creature still indeed be called her husband?—she masked the sound with a hand to her lips, but—too late.

Berkeley shot upright, his eyes wild, his hand clasped around a dagger which Helena had not even been aware he kept beneath his pillow. ( _His_ pillow? But that could not be right, could it? Was this—person—a man or a woman? Her mind reeled, and only in part because of the dagger now pressed to her throat.)

Berkeley, blinking into the night, realized upon whom he—she?—had drawn the knife, and sputtered apologies, only to realize that the bandages upon her—his?—chest had been tampered with. In the moonlight, the lord’s face went deathly pale, and she—or he? Helena’s mind could not settle on one option or the other—moaned, the dagger dropping onto the bed and Berkeley clambering out, leaning against its post.

And, though it was possibly the single _most_ idiotic thing she had ever said in her life, the words that tumbled out of Helena’s mouth were: “But you’re a man!”

With another moan, Berkeley pressed a hand to his—or her—forehead, looking quite as if she—or he—might be ill at any moment. The person Helena had thought she knew so well looked at her through the dark, moaned yet again, and then, grasping at the clothing which her lord had shucked before the two of them retired, Berkeley staggered out of the room, slamming the door so hard upon exit that it rattled in its frame.

Helena, poor, confused, utterly dazed Helena, sat upon her knees in the bed she had thought she shared with her _husband_ , and in that moment, could not even begin to fathom that which she had just seen.


	11. Beautiful and Terrible as an Avenging Angel

Myka dashed headlong through the inn until she arrived at the stables, where she tripped quite suddenly over the extended foot of a slumbering hostler and tumbled, headfirst, into the straw of the nearest stall, which, as it happened, was already occupied by a horse which was none too pleased with this rudest of visitors, and which stamped its foot with displeasure, quite close to where her hand had fallen when she sprawled.

She must have made quite a sight, the Lord Berkeley staggering through the inn in nothing more than a nightshirt.

Only now, of course, Helena had learned her secret, and all was lost. Her title, the wealth and estate which came with it, and the reputation of her whole family now rested in Helena’s delicate, long-fingered hands. Even sprawled indecently upon the floor of a stable, Myka bemoaned her fate once again.

The insistent stamping of the horse shook her from her reverie, and she hastened to change back into her fine clothes—shirt, waistcoat, breeches. She had not had the forethought to grab her boots, or indeed her coat, nor did she have any coin on her person, but a quick glance outside the stall indicated that the hostler was indeed known to her, which was quite a stroke of luck. Though she did not bother to ask him for a pair of boots—it being unlikely that a pair which fit her could be procured quickly at such an hour—she did ask him for the loan of a horse, reassuring him that the cost would be covered through her account at the inn. Thus, in short order, she was mounted upon a fine gray gelding—with bare feet—and riding hard for Berkeley, intent upon warning her mother of events which might follow.

It was cold in the night, and the bare skin of Myka’s hands, feet, and face soon ached from the chill wind of her passing, but she did not stop until after dawn, when Berkeley Castle was in sight, at which point, her horse lathered and panting, Myka heaved herself from the saddle and staggered upon legs nearly gone numb to the door.

The first one to find her slumped in the front hall was the butler, Mr Valda, who assisted her to her feet and saw to it that she was put straight to bed, despite Myka’s vocal protests. He did, however, consent to fetch her mother, so long as Myka consented to a visit from the doctor.

Dr Miller arrived first, and was attending her when Lady Berkeley arrived from the dower house (having moved there quite of her own volition whilst Myka and Helena were touring), dressed impeccably as always but looking to be some mixture between worried and standoffish. “Oughtn’t you be attended by your wife, Berkeley?” she sniped, sweeping into Myka’s bedroom and commandeering its most comfortable chair, though it was quite a ways away from the bed itself.

“Mother,” said Myka, exhibiting every bit of anxiety which Lady Berkeley seemed to push down by seating herself so far away from her sick child. “Please, come here.”

As Myka had made it the politest request possible, and given that she was shaking and febrile, lying abed, Lady Berkeley deigned to approach, though she did not take Myka’s outstretched hand, or express any apparent concern over the state of Myka’s health. She did, however, notice how Myka looked warily at Dr Miller, and upon his informing her that her child was in no real danger as far as her health was concerned, Lady Berkeley saw the man ushered out. “Now, child,” she said, standing straight and tall as possible at Myka’s bedside, “why all the fuss? My maid said something about you riding ‘cross the countryside like a madman—and without any shoes, I believe?”

“It is Helena,” said Myka, pushing herself up in bed though it made her head reel to sit upright. “She has found out about my condition, and I fear—I fear that she may see me hanged, and you put out into the cold.”

Lady Berkeley clucked her tongue. “I did warn you.”

“Yes, and I did not listen.”

Pursing her lips, she replied, “We are fortunate now that your sister is secure, given her marriage to Mr Wolcott. Even were you to be hanged, her fifteen thousand would remain with her.” She shook her head with a pinched expression, continuing, “I could always throw myself upon the mercy of my brother, or I could show myself piteous before my new son.”

“You should not have to—to prostitute yourself so!” cried Myka, sitting up yet further, only to be forced to lean back against her pillows at the way the room spun before her eyes. She closed them instead, clutching the coverlet. “I—have saved some money of my own, from my service with the Army. In the will and testament I had drawn up before I purchased my commission I designated that all such funds were to go to Tracy, but—I shall send for my solicitor and have it changed in your favour.”

Her mother did now deign to grasp Myka’s hand. “Berkeley,” she said firmly, and then, more quietly, she amended it. “Myka, with Tracy settled and you gone, there is no reason to be concerned for me. My portion from my marriage to your father will be returned to me, and though I will not have a residence of my own, I shall have enough to manage. Do not worry overmuch for your mother.”

Myka was nearly certain that, since she became Lord Berkeley in her twelfth year, she could count the number of times her mother had addressed her by name on only one hand. This was a serious matter indeed, then. “Mother—”

“I have never trusted that Helena Wells,” said Lady Berkeley sharply, “but if she wants to see you ruined, I shall see her ruined as well, you can be certain of that.” And with that, she let go of Myka’s hand and turned away to leave, pausing only briefly in the doorway. “Rest now, child. I shall stay here to see you remain safe.”

In the face of such a fierce showing from her mother, Myka slumped back into the bed, her hard ride through the night, and the emotion of the situation, combining to leave her utterly exhausted, such that she fell, at last, into a fitful sleep plagued by dreams of Helena, beautiful and terrible as an avenging angel descending upon her.

When she awoke at last there was light streaming through the curtains, though it was bright enough that she concluded she must have slept through most of one day and all through the next night. She still felt a bit weak, and rather muddle-headed, enough that she rang at once for her valet, Mr Jinks, although she had left him, along with Helena, back at the inn. Nonetheless, Jinks appeared, and he assisted her through her toilette and then saw her safely ensconced once more in her bed. “Is there aught I can fetch for you, my lord?” he asked, quite as if nothing were amiss at all.

Though words did not appear to cooperate with her, she forced them out through a throat quite sore indeed. “Jinks, is she—what has happened? With Helena?”

“Lady Berkeley insisted the carriage be rerouted to London rather than Berkeley, presumably to return to her father and brother. Beyond that, your lordship, I do not know, as it is my duty to attend to you, sir, and not to her ladyship.”

“Did you not…did she say nothing?”

“To me, sir? No. But I overheard her talking with her maid, and she said something about you having time to yourselves, I think.”

“Curious,” replied Myka, knowing as she did exactly what had occurred in their chambers that evening, and though Jinks had no way of knowing himself why Myka would have undertaken such a mad dash as she had, he was the perfect servant, and did not even bother to enquire.

“I did bring your things with me, my lord.” And then, with a grin nothing short of cheeky, he added, “Including your boots, I believe?”

It was enough to warrant a smile and an expression of her gratitude, after which she dismissed her valet and relaxed upon her bed. If only she had some idea what Helena was up to, of what was in her mind! But of course there was no way of knowing, which left Myka with nothing more to do than await whatever fate her lady bestowed upon her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the last I have written for now. I'm working on the next but can make no promises about when it'll go up, since I'm about to be out of the country for a week for my job. But we'll see what I can do.


	12. Berkeley's Deceit

After two long days of attempting to untangle the snarl of confusion created within her by Lord Berkeley’s revelation, Helena had come to a few conclusions.

First, that Lord Berkeley was, in fact, a woman masquerading as a man (although Helena’s mind had a great deal of difficulty in _thinking_ of Berkeley as a woman, and stubbornly resisted the application of feminine pronouns towards the lord’s person). This was the only explanation for what Helena had seen, and was further supported by several other factors, namely that Berkeley’s cheeks were always impossibly smooth, that his throat, when bare of a cravat—as happened only within the confines of their room at night—did not have any such prominence to it as might be expected, and that his voice, though pleasant, was not very deep. Helena had to concede this last was only a _supporting_ fact, however, as she was well aware that not all men spoke in a voluminous baritone.

Second, that Berkeley’s deceit must be of some long standing, as the stories he and Sir Peter told of Eton coincided too well to have been invented, which meant the pair of them had likely first met in adolescence—some many years ago now.

The third and final, and perhaps most important, thing which Helena had concluded, was that it _did not matter_ what lay beneath Berkeley’s clothes. Man or woman, it was not of much importance to her, for what Helena had loved about Berkeley from early on was his mind, not his physical form—although he was certainly pleasing enough to the eye, especially in plain-clothes rather than regimentals.

The truth of things, though it would cause quite a scandal among her family and, indeed, many of her friends as well if they were aware, was that Helena was not _altogether_ innocent when it came to tender feelings for members of her own sex. In her younger years she had harboured feelings most passionate for one of her dearest friends, and had even gone so far as to kiss the other girl—only once, but it was enough to see an end to their friendship. But, perhaps most remarkable, was that in her late adolescence, upon the arrival of the Frederics in London, Helena had carried on something of a _liaison_ with Leena Frederic. The affair had only lasted some months, until Mrs Frederic married a country gentleman and she and her daughter left the city for his estate, but those months had been full of exploration for Helena, brimming with possibilities, as well as stolen moments in closed carriages, or while dressing for parties. They had continued to write some rather amorous letters to one another for some months after the Frederics left town, but with time and distance their ardour had soon settled, and these days there was little more to Helena’s feeling for Leena that went beyond a gentle filial affection, though on occasion she and Leena would still share a secret smile across a room in remembrance of what had been.

Considering Helena’s _experience_ , then, her husband being a woman was, indeed, not much of a problem. And given that fact, she did feel that perhaps she ought to have followed Berkeley’s route home, and not turned to London instead; but she was much too displeased by having been intentionally deceived on what felt like all fronts, such that she felt she would strike her husband upon seeing him, an act which she was certain would cause more harm than help.

So it was that, two days after discovering her husband’s deception, Helena found herself arriving at the Berkeleys’ house in London, intending to freshen herself from the journey, and then pay a visit to Sir Peter Lattimer, for, she was certain, if anyone in the world aside from her husband’s family could fully explain to her the events which had led up to her sudden discovery of Lord Berkeley’s true nature, it would be he. And, as Sir Peter’s own nuptials were scheduled to take place in only a fortnight, she was nigh certain that she would find the man at his home in the city.

After ensuring that the horses were still fit to travel, Helena ordered the carriage be kept ready, and then hurried inside to change out of her travel-rumpled clothes into something rather more presentable, whereupon she returned to the carriage, directed the driver as to their destination, and waited, feeling rather more impatient now than she had the whole journey to the city.

She alighted before the Lattimers’ door and, rather than leaving her card (not that it would have been accurate anyhow—she had yet to have ones done up which read “Lady Berkeley”), all but demanded to be taken in to see Sir Peter. His staff saw her to a pleasantly adorned sitting room, but Helena, now so close to the answers she sought, could not bring herself to be seated. Instead, she paced restlessly about the room, worrying her reticule in her hands until, at last, Sir Peter himself appeared, greeting her jovially, until he realized she was not in the company of her husband.

“But you are alone,” he said aloud, and she watched his face crease in concern as he took in the taut lines of her own features. “Has something happened to Berkeley?”

Halting her restless pacing, Helena turned towards Sir Peter. “I must ask you: are we likely to be overheard?” When Sir Peter did not respond, she gestured impatiently towards the door. “Your staff! Can they be trusted, should they overhear anything untoward?”

“You are beginning to frighten me, Lady Berkeley.”

With one more vicious twist to her reticule which broke some of the delicate beadwork right off, Helena crossed towards him. “I have learned something rather alarming about my husband, Sir Peter.”

He did not reply, merely staring at her in obvious shock, but after the passage of a moment, his normally open expression closed quite suddenly. She expected him to respond in some other way, and yet he did not.

“Well?” she demanded, folding her arms across her chest. “From your face I can tell you are aware that Berkeley is not what—well. Not what _he_ claims to be.”

Sir Peter’s expression became very grim. “No,” he agreed, “indeed he is not. But he is as good a man as I have ever met, and the most stalwart of friends, and if you have come here for—for fodder in some ill-conceived campaign of destruction against my friend then so help me…”

“I wish him nothing of the sort!” she cried, hurrying to reassure Sir Peter that she had no designs on seeing her husband ruined and that, more than anything, what she had sought from Sir Peter himself was some measure of understanding of _why_ Berkeley proceeded with the elaborate charade his life seemed to be. “I love—her,” Helena said, being deliberate in her choice of words and forcing them out past the still-extant confusion Berkeley generated within her own person. “May God help me, I do. I just wish that I knew—that I understood—”

Sir Peter seemed to relax at this, his frosty demeanour warming once more. He guided her to the settee, and she allowed herself to be seated. “I am not quite sure this is my tale to tell,” he said gently, “but I know Berkeley, and I believe it unlikely he would tell you himself. In fact, I believe he only told _me_ because if he had not, he likely would have died.”

And so Sir Peter relayed the barest outlines of Berkeley’s life: the death of his father and brother, the lack of other heirs, and the decision (made by others) which had shaped the rest of his life. When Sir Peter had concluded, he fixed Helena with a measured stare. “Upon learning the truth, I myself felt quite betrayed, that my dearest friend had deceived me so. But you must believe me in this: for him—for _her_ —it is no deception. The person you have grown to know—to love—that is _him_ , to his very soul.”

Helena thought of the many sides of her husband which she had seen: his gentle, attentive nature; the spark in his eye when they lit on a subject which impassioned him; the quiet, stumbling way he professed his love for her. It brought a smile to her face, and she had to admit that even upon further examination, she could not find a trace of fallacy in any of it. “Yes, I believe you are right,” she agreed quietly. When he did not continue immediately, she noticed that he looked quite troubled. “What is the matter?”

“Berkeley loves you,” he replied. “He loves you with such devotion as I had never thought to see, especially not from him, a person who had planned to live a solitary life.” He paused, frowned, and continued, “For one so strong in so many ways, I fear…he may not survive you forsaking him.”

The mere thought of abandoning her husband, however complicated their situation may be, filled Helena with horror, and made her recoil. “I would never—!”

“That is a relief to my conscience, then,” said he. “I could not bear the thought that…but no, of course, you love him as he loves you.”

“Yes,” sighed Helena. “Just as Berkeley had expected to live his life alone, I had expected to live mine without any great happiness. But I think—I believe—that we shall find that in one another. We must, of course, discuss how to proceed, given certain…facts, but I do not regret our marriage. Nor do think I ever could.”

Sir Peter seemed very relieved to hear such a thing from her, and after some further conversation, Helena concluded that the only acceptable course was to make all haste back to Berkeley Castle to speak to her husband in person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise lady affair!
> 
> Also, my outline was wrong, and there will, in fact, be _two_ more chapters after this one, plus an epilogue.


	13. The Result of Quite a Lot of Brandy

Following her mad ride to Berkeley, Myka was prescribed four days’ rest, minimum, to fight off the chill she had caught and its resultant exhaustion. As she had slept through most of the first day, the second was not too bad, but by the third the order chafed, and upon the fourth, though she still felt slightly unwell, she could not bring herself to remain abed any longer. Though it was against Dr Miller’s orders, Myka insisted upon getting up and dressed, and even upon an easy ride through the grounds of the estate. None of this, however, assisted her in forgetting the uncertainty of her future, and by late morning, she had resolved, though it was a foolish notion of poor judgment, that she would provide her own medication, in the form of becoming rip-roaring drunk—if only to see if it helped her forget that her future, and indeed that of her mother as well, rested in Helena’s hands.

She was already well into a bottle of brandy when, quite suddenly, Jinks burst into her study, startling her so badly that she sloshed half a dram down the front of her own waistcoat. “My lord!” he exclaimed. “Cook has just come from town—she was on her way back with the shopping when she saw the mail coach arrive—and with her ladyship departing from within! I imagine she will arrive here any moment!”

This news was, perhaps, more startling than Jinks’s sudden appearance had been. She set her glass down, her head reeling, and looked forlornly at the mess down her front. “Jinks,” she said, feeling as if the word came from quite far away, and not from her own throat, “fetch me a change, won’t you? I believe this waistcoat may be ruined.”

Her valet, to his credit, did not question or berate her, and simply disappeared from the study as Myka set, with fumbling hands, to removing the offending item of clothing. Jinks returned quite quickly, holding out a fresh waistcoat in a fetching shade of green which reminded Myka of the gown Helena had worn to their wedding.

But of course, there was no time for reminiscing.

By the time noise of Helena’s arrival in the foyer filtered through the open door of Myka’s study, she was fully dressed once again, though not entirely pristinely, as her cravat was partly undone and her coat—which had not been spared the fall of brandy—sat crooked upon her shoulders. But even had Myka allowed it, Jinks did not have time to straighten its seams, for Helena appeared in the doorway, as beautifully dressed as Myka was not, and still in her bonnet and gloves from her journey.

“Hello, darling,” she said, stepping into the study. Myka attempted to determine the emotion behind it, but Helena’s beautiful face was nearly expressionless, as unreadable to Myka as Egyptian hieroglyphs. “I believe we ought to talk.”

Myka, as ill at ease as she had ever been in her life, gave Jinks a significant glance which sent him scuttling out of the room with murmured apologies. Once they were truly alone, she and Helena simply stared at one another, until Myka, under the influence of her half-bottle of brandy, began to rattle about in her desk. At last, she produced a very fine, gold-filigreed pistol, upon which she removed herself from behind the desk, and cocked the gun. “If you have come to have me hanged,” she said, unsurprised to hear a slight tremor in her voice, “I shall not hear of it.”

“Berkeley,” said Helena, sounding somewhat alarmed. Myka would not listen, however, and merely shook her head, blinking furiously at the way the world swam about her. When her vision cleared, she crossed the distance between them and, without ceremony, pressed the pistol into Helena’s fingers.

What followed was, to put it lightly, quite a dramatic scene: Myka curled one hand around Helena’s, ensuring the lady’s firm grip upon the gun, and then she dropped, quite suddenly, to her knees before Helena, the hand which was unoccupied guiding the barrel of the pistol to press squarely to her forehead. The drink, having loosened her tongue, then sent forth an outpouring of all of Myka’s anguish from the last few days. “If I am to die, then kill me,” she said. “Shoot me now. Do not send me to my death at the noose—not like that. Not like a coward. I’d rather you look me in the eyes, and take my life.”

“Good God!” cried Helena. Her hand came up to prise Myka’s fingers away, until at last she freed herself, and the pistol tumbled to the ground, the impact causing it to let off its single shot. It did not, fortunately, hit either of the two of them, the bullet instead lodging in the room’s wood paneling, but the noise was sudden, and quite thunderous in the confines of the study, causing a great enough alarum that after but a moment, the door was thrown open to admit the butler, Mr Valda, pale-faced and bearing a fire poker in as threatening a manner as possible.

“Thank you, Mr Valda,” said Helena, in a voice as steady as Myka felt with the brandy in her system (which is to say, not very). It picked up gusto as she went along, though, until she sounded quite matter-of-fact. “You may go. We are all right here. The shot was fired quite by accident, and we are both unharmed.”

Valda lowered the poker, quite obviously taking in the lingering scent of alcohol and gunpowder in the air, and gave Helena a wary look. “If you’re sure?” Helena reiterated her request, and he retreated, leaving them alone once more, at which point Helena turned back towards Myka, her face once more unreadable. “You’re drunk.”

Myka, still stunned by the sudden firing of the pistol, and now quite certain that she had made rather a fool of herself, slowly levered herself up from her place on the floor. “That is generally the result when one consumes quite a lot of brandy, yes.”

After appearing to consider Myka for a long moment, Helena sighed, removing first her bonnet, followed by her gloves. “I think this is, perhaps, a matter best discussed when you are _not_ drunk.”

As Myka made her way, at last, to her feet, steadying herself upon the nearest piece of furniture, she found she could only stare at her wife in puzzlement. “So…you do not wish me dead, then?”

Helena turned a look on her which was likely best described as _exasperated_. “Foolish creature! I am here, am I not? If I had wished you hanged, do you honestly believe I would have come to inform you, in person, beforehand?” Setting her things down on the desk beside Myka’s abandoned glass of brandy, she continued, “You positively _reek_ of brandy. Are you certain you did not _bathe_ in it?”

This struck Myka as quite funny, and resulted in a loud, full-throated chortle, head tossed back in mirth; which, unfortunately, caused her to overbalance, and she stumbled, tottered, and barely managed not to fall, due to Helena’s grasping her arm.

“I believe, darling, that you would benefit from a bit of rest,” said she. “And then…then, perhaps, we shall talk.”

Moments later, Mr Valda reemerged into the study, and Myka soon found herself being assisted—somewhat forcibly—back to the bed to which she had vowed not to return ‘til that evening. Nonetheless, once she had been relieved of her boots and coat, and placed beneath the coverlet, she saw Helena seated by her bedside, and soon fell into a deep sleep, the likes of which she had not experienced since Helena’s discovery of her secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on the next chapter, and am not sure if I'll be able to post it while I'm away, but after that, only the epilogue is left.


	14. A Most Felicitous Resolution

It was perhaps the last thing which Helena had expected, to arrive at Berkeley Castle and find her husband well into his cups, but once he was seen to his bed, she was given time enough for contemplation of the situation, upon which she could not find it in herself to be so greatly surprised. After all, on the night of her discovery, there had not been time enough to express to her husband that she had, indeed, no issue with his being a woman. And, given Berkeley’s somewhat shocking display with the pistol, she was given over to believing that his lordship must have spent the time between the revelation and the present moment in the company of nothing more than the gloomiest, most dreadful of thoughts, for which, she supposed, he could not be faulted.

Given Berkeley’s distress, Helena could not bring herself to leave him, lest he wake to find her gone, and be given over to further concern with regards to her intentions. Thus she remained at his bedside for some time, entertaining herself, at turns, by reading a volume which she found nearby, and by examining her husband at rest. The latter, it must be mentioned, was of far more interest to her, for given her recently acquired knowledge, Helena found herself examining his countenance for clues to Berkeley’s true nature, of which, she now found, there were many.

So intent upon her examination was she that when, at last, Berkeley’s eyes were opened once again, she found herself quite startled by their appearance. “Oh!” she cried. “You are awake at last!”

“Yes,” replied he, “and I find I must apologise for my earlier behaviour. I fear I have comported myself very badly.”

“I do not think, darling,” said Helena, “that you own much of the blame in this regard, for it is I who have caused you to resort to drink.”

To this he did not answer.

“Given your earlier outburst, I have not, as you now know, come to see you hanged, or disgraced, or anything of the sort. I know it shall come as some surprise to you, and I do not begrudge you any outrage or jealousy which may ensue from the discovery of this information, but you are not, dear Berkeley, my first lover of the female persuasion.”

He reacted, much as she had expected, with great surprise. “But how can this be so? And this other lover—or _lovers_ , I suppose—are they known to me?”

“You will recall Miss Frederic?” Berkeley was, perhaps, even more surprised by this news, aware as he was that the Frederics were close friends of the Wellses, and that they saw a great deal of one another. As such, he expressed his concern—with as much jealousy as Helena had expected—that there may still be some amount of tender feeling between herself and Miss Frederic.

This, then, was the point to which they had been destined to arrive, and the true purpose behind Helena’s rapid journey to Berkeley Castle. She paused to gather her thoughts and ensure that she would not make some error in speech which would give her husband cause for alarm.

“I assure you that there has been no such attachment between Miss Frederic and myself for quite some time.  For, as I am _here_ , with you, it should be obvious to you where my true affections lie.”

Berkeley, arising from his reclined posture on the bed, eased himself towards its edge to examine her with some intent. “You would not, then, see our marriage annulled, such that you might find your felicity elsewhere? I would consent to be styled as insane if that were your wish, or would readily agree to the fraud which, in truth, I have perpetrated, and would gladly suffer whatever consequences might follow.”

Helena leveled her husband with an arch stare. “I am beginning to think that you must be simple. _You_ are the one that I love, Berkeley, and no other. I shall not forsake you, despite your deception.”

This seemed a great relief to him; his whole person veritably sagged with the weight of it. “I did not think it possible,” he said, in a voice quite small, “to find someone who would bear my condition half so well.”

“Bear it!” she repeated with a laugh, leaning forward to join her hands to his. “Not at all! I think I shall rather relish it!”

“You are, Helena, the rarest of creatures,” he said, with great reverence. “I had begun to despair of ever seeing you again.”

Though Helena was inclined to make light of the situation, her husband was clearly not so disposed, so she tempered her amusement and, in all seriousness, reached forward to trace the line of one of Berkeley’s very soft cheeks, taking a long moment merely to absorb the handsomeness of his countenance. Then, at last, she replied, “I cannot walk away from my truth.” When she sensed that Berkeley did not quite grasp her meaning, she sighed. “You are, darling, the embodiment of all that I have ever wished to find for myself; gallant, intelligent, sensible—yet light-hearted and good-humoured, and capable of drawing me out of my moods. I could not find it within myself to say goodbye to the one person who knows me better than anyone else. But more than that—you _love_ me. I know it to be so. And you love not just an _idea_ of me, but my actual person, with all its benefits and its foibles. And the discovery of such a thing is never to be taken lightly.”

“I could say the same of you,” he challenged, and Helena, seeing that he was at last beginning to believe her, allowed the mood to proceed towards that lightness which they ought to have had all along; for the discovery of a love requited, no matter its form, ought to be celebrated.

“And so you could,” she replied with a smile. “But you are a person far more agreeable than I, and, were we not to have found one another, I believe you would be far more likely to find happiness elsewhere.”

“Now that, truly, is unfair,” said he, at last returning the smile. “For you, Helena, are surely the most charming creature upon which I have ever laid eyes.”

Unable, and, moreover, unwilling, to resist the compulsion, Helena leaned forward and joined their lips in a kiss which was, to her mind, long overdue. Berkeley returned it eagerly, until at last Helena withdrew, her mind occupied by one matter which she had, to this point, had no opportunity to consider seriously but for which, now that it had occurred to her, she found she required an answer.

“Tell me: how would you prefer I address you? I could, most certainly, refer to you as I would any man, but as you are not—strictly speaking—a man, I wish to know if you would prefer I not treat you as such? And, what’s more, I find myself most desirous to learn your name. Your _true_ Christian name, mind, for I know that it is not Henry.”

Berkeley seemed to consider these questions for a moment before he deigned to respond. “I am well used, you may be aware, to the company of men,” he began, “and of being addressed as such. It is also, I daresay, quite a bit _safer_ for myself—and, I suppose, for _your_ self as well—to continue in that vein. And as to the other, I have not had much occasion for the use of my true Christian name. I am, I fear, quite out of the practice of responding to it.”

Helena did not reply, merely leveling her husband with another arch stare, which returned from him a somewhat chastened smile.

“My name is Myka,” he said at last.

“Then I shall have to ensure that you _come_ to be in the practice of responding to it,” said Helena, leaning forward once more. “Myka,” she added with a smile, enjoying the feel of the name on her palate. She repeated it, and then pressed her lips to his once more. When he smiled against her mouth, Helena began to repeat the name, over and over, like a litany, the repetition of which she accompanied each time with a kiss, until, at last, the two of them began to laugh at the nonsense-sounds which it began to resemble.

“In this moment,” said Myka with a smile, “in the whole world, I am certain there cannot be another woman as happy as I.”

“That simply cannot be true,” replied Helena, with a smile equal to her husband’s. “For surely, _I_ am the happiest.”

This renewed their mirth, and among further exchanges of affection, the two fell back into Berkeley’s bed, whereupon Helena took great pleasure in removing, piece by piece, every portion of that which she had come to view as Berkeley’s— _Myka’s_ —disguise; and for the first time, but certainly not the last, they were thus given over to the sorts of pleasures which are, generally, shared between partners in a marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left now!


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: The Greatest Blessing of a Lifetime

“Aunt Helena,” came the familiar curious voice, “what will this one do?”

Christina Wells, at ten years of age, was not well disposed to the pursuits which were generally considered proper for a young lady. She detested needlework and other decorative arts, viewed the study of music with some distaste, did not find much pleasure in languages, and when given the choice, preferred above all other things, watching, or, better still, assisting, her Aunt Helena in her laboratory. At this, it was agreed, Christina most certainly did excel, and Helena indeed seemed to be happiest with her work when assisted by her young charge. This was in no small part why Christina was _allowed_ such odd behaviour; but then, given the strange habits and pursuits of her aunt, it was also considered that some of her tendencies might very well have run in the blood.

“It is a grappling-gun,” said Helena, not daring to raise her eye from the intricate machine-work which she was in the process of undertaking.

“But what does it _do_?”

Though the invention was not ready for use, as soon as Helena had finished with the arrangement of the cogs to which she had been attending, and once she was certain that they were firmly in place, she lifted the item in question and pointed it up towards the ceiling of the drawing-room which had, some years ago, been converted into her laboratory. “As a pistol fires when you depress the trigger,” she explained, “so too will the grappler.” And then she proceeded to explain its purpose to her brother’s daughter, who listened with rapt attention.

“I have not yet succeeded in deploying this invention,” finished Helena, returning the device to her work bench and proceeding to clean her hands—or at least, attempting to clean them as best as was possible, given they were smeared in grease.

No-one had ever held Lady Berkeley in esteem, after all, for her delicate nature or sensibilities.

“Darling, perhaps you ought to go find your father. Last I knew he was in the study with your uncle and Cousin Warren.”

“Bo-ring,” pronounced Christina, settling herself more comfortably in the perch she had taken upon the work bench beside her aunt’s newest project. “All they ever talk about is _business_.” She pronounced the word with a marked distaste, a tone which was, on most occasions, reserved only for the most offensive of “lady-like” pursuits.

“Well, this is business too, is it not?”

“Of a sort. But _much_ more interesting.”

Helena laughed, delighted. In truth, there was very little about her niece which she did _not_ find delightful. Even certain tendencies of her own which were, in herself, less than favourable, appeared charming in Christina, including a certain stubbornness of which Helena was quite proud.

“Come now,” said she, “it is late already; luncheon will be served soon and I believe there may be some apple dumplings in the offing.”

As Helena had known she would, upon hearing this news Christina removed herself at once from the work bench and made haste from the room. “Come _on!_ If we are late, Michael and Uncle Berkeley will have eaten them all!”

“Christina!” she called sharply, smiling when she heard the pounding footsteps of her niece stop in the hall. “Wash up before you go in, darling.”

“Yes Aunt Helena!” replied Christina, who then, Helena noticed, immediately took flight down the hall once more.

Lady Berkeley merely smiled all the wider, and made her own way towards luncheon, pausing in the wash room to take her own advice, such that she might appear at least somewhat more presentable at table. It was, however, only luncheon, and with only her own family present, so there was no real reason to concern herself overmuch with her appearance. This, she thought, was rather a good thing, as it meant she would not cause a scandal by appearing in the trousers, grease-stained shirt, and waistcoat—the latter of which she had stolen quite unscrupulously from Myka’s own wardrobe—which she had taken to wearing about the house some years ago, as being fashionable, Helena had always thought, was an entirely pointless endeavour. She much preferred comfort and function to form.

This, unfortunately for Charles, was one of the many ways in which Christina took after her aunt.

On arriving at luncheon, Helena took a moment to examine the room: at one end of the table, having escaped notice, Tracy and Wolcott’s youngest, Michael, at six years of age, had managed to skip luncheon entirely and had already, as Christina predicted, started in on the apple dumplings. Nearest him were two of his elder siblings: Rose, eight years old, Christina’s diametric opposite with her enduring ardour for all things romantic or lady-like; and George, who at eleven years of age had shewn himself to have a very quick mind, having already outstripped the knowledge of one tutor, after which Myka had ensured the man’s replacement with the famed Mr Nielsen, who was seated across from his charge and still taking the opportunity, Helena could tell, to quiz his pupil on some subject or another. (Next to Christina, George was Helena’s favourite, though she made every effort not to let her nieces and nephews know such a fact.)

Beyond that pair was Christina, Charles’ only child, and Charles himself, along with Mr and Mrs Wolcott, and their eldest, Warren, aged fourteen years, who was every bit as amiable as his father, and who had the honour of being willed the next Lord Berkeley.

And at the head of the table, presiding over the ordered chaos of this particular luncheon, was Myka, the current Lord Berkeley, who appeared every bit as pleased with the scene before him as Helena was herself.

Helena, who noticed their rather large extended family had had the good sense to leave an empty space for her at Myka’s left, made her way through the room, stopping to leave noisome kisses on the cheeks of each one of her nieces and nephews, some of whom (Rose) giggled delightedly, while others (George) loudly voiced their displeasure with the act. When she at last arrived at her designated space at the table, she bent and bestowed a kiss upon her husband as well, earning more delighted giggles (again from Rose) and derisive noises (from Michael this time).

“Hello, darling,” said Helena.

“Did you steal that waistcoat yourself,” asked Myka mildly, “or did Jinks help you this time?” He spared her a wry look, which earned nothing but laughter from Helena.

“Oh, Berkeley,” she said, favouring him with the particular look which, generally, she saved for the privacy of their bedroom. To keep her words private, she bent closer to speak them directly into her husband’s ear. “You ought to know by now that I do my own dirty work.”

Even after fifteen years of marriage this had its desired effect, a darkening of Myka’s eyes which signified his interest; had they not been among so many other people in their home Helena believed excuses would have been made such that they two could have a moment to themselves. But as it was, they _were_ among others, so Helena merely raked a gentle hand through Myka’s curls and pressed another kiss to his cheek. “Later, darling,” she promised, and took up her customary seat, whereupon she steered the conversation of the table most skillfully.

When luncheon was well and truly over, with even the crumbs of the apple dumplings having been consumed, the Wolcotts and the Wellses were seen off, leaving Myka and Helena alone once more in the London house which had become, over time, and with the birth of more nieces and nephews to whom they wished to be close, their primary residence.

“So,” said Myka, wrapping his arms around Helena from behind once the last of their family had departed, “I believe there is a debt of honour which you must repay.”

“Oh?” replied Helena, turning in her husband’s arms. “What debt is this now? I do not recall having made any unscrupulous bets or investments.”

“It is a more personal matter,” said he. “Pertaining, in fact, to a certain waistcoat which, it seems, has made its way into your possession.”

“Ah,” said she, with all the gravitas she could summon which, given the rather large smile upon her face, was not very much at all. “A very serious and delicate matter indeed.”

“Quite so,” answered Myka, with a smile every bit as bright as Helena’s. “I think I shall rather delight in collecting on the debt in question.”

“Not half as much as I, darling,” said Helena, quietly wondering to herself how she had been so fortunate as to be blessed with this person in her life. “Not half as much as I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Hope you've all enjoyed the ride!


End file.
